


Daddy Issues.

by glanmire



Series: Erik's terrible foray into parenting. [1]
Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Humor, M/M, Post-DOFP, drunk!erik, mansion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glanmire/pseuds/glanmire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have a son,” Erik says from the rubble. He truly is the master of dramatic entrances.</p><p> or, That time Erik got wasted and crashed into the side of the mansion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

“I have a son,” Erik says from the rubble. He truly is the master of dramatic entrances.

Hank does not know what to make of this situation. In the last ten years he’d dealt with Charles being drunk, Charles being stoned, Charles being depressed. But Erik? How was he expected to reassure a megalomaniac that he would be okay, that parenting _really wasn’t so bad._  
“C’mon, let’s get you inside,” he said. Erik allowed himself to be helped out of thesmall crater he’d made in the side of the house, and that’s when Hank knew something was up.  
“Can we go see Charles?” Erik asks, slurring his words a little, and Hank thinks, _yes, definitely a concussion._  
“Sure Magneto, of course we can,” he says, soothingly as he can. He’s not really sure whether to say ‘Erik’ or ‘Magneto’, but he goes with the latter, because it’s not worth getting killed over if Erik decides to get in one of his darker moods.  
“That’s it,” he says reassuringly, draping Erik’s limp arm over his shoulder. “I have you now.” 

The murdering, professor-crippling lunatic weighs less than Hank thought he would, or maybe it’s just that Hank is just pretty strong these days. It’s not too far to Charles’ room either, and Erik thankfully doesn’t make small talk. 

 

“Erik? Hank, oh god, what’s happened?” Charles says as Hank unceremoniously dumps Erik into an armchair in Charles’ room.  

“This idiot decided to get wasted and then levitate over here. He was coming to see Pietro,” Hank explains. The adage, ‘never drink and drive’, or in this case, ‘fly,’ has never been more appropriate.  
“He crashed into the side of the house. I had to dig him out. The idiot is lucky I was coming back from the lab, or we’d never have found him, seeing as he has that stupid helmet on.” 

“You’re my hero,” Erik says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. That’s more like the Erik he knows and hates. 

“Thank you Hank. Would you run down and get Alex? We may need more help.” 

Hank is just about to say, _nah Charles, I can carry him_ , when he hears Charles’ voice in his head. _Alex wouldn’t want to miss out. How often do you get to see your arch-nemesis sprawled out, intoxicated and concussed?_

The Professor has a point. “I’ll go do that then,” Hank says, and leaves them to it. He jogs as he goes though. He doesn’t want to miss any more of this than he has to. 

 

“Hey man, what did I say about bursting into my room, I could have a girl in here or anything,” Alex is saying angrily as Hank pulls him out of bed. 

“As if,” Hank shoots back. “C’mon, hurry, Magneto is drunk and concussed upstairs.” 

One look at Hank’s face and Alex nods. You could feasibly make this shit up, but you couldn’t make the expression Hank is making right now without damn good reason. 

He’s pissed that Erik thinks he can just barge in here, anxious to get back and see what happens, worried that Charles will be a pushover and just hand Pietro over to the Brotherhood, but also he’s grinning because this is _priceless._ Alex pulls on a t-shirt and they half-run back up the stairs. 

 

When they enter Charles’ room, nothing has changed except Erik is struggling under a blanket that Charles has evidently draped over him.  
“I do not need a blanket Charles, I’m perfectly fine,” he’s saying, though no-one seems to be listening. 

“Hey dickhead,” Alex says, walking over to where Erik is sitting and casually whacking the helmet so that there’s a loud, dull thud, “We didn’t miss you.” 

“Alex!” Charles scolds, but it’s done the trick and Erik pulls off the helmet. 

“Maybe I do have a concussion,” he says woozily. 

“You might _now,_ ” Charles says, glaring at Alex, who is holding his hands up in the universal ‘dude-he-crippled-you-I’m-allowed-hit-him-once’ gesture. 

 

“Can someone get my son?” Erik says then, looking around wildly, like Pietro is going to pop out for behind a curtain or something, which is actually a distinct possibility and has happened on occasion.  

“Not when you’re in this state Erik, no, but maybe in the morning if you’re still here.” 

There’s ice in Charles’ tone, well-deserved but a touch hypocritical too; Charles did spend a decade drunk after all. 

Erik glares at him and then puts his head in his hands. “I can’t believe I have a son,” he mumbles between fingers. 

“Are you sure?” Alex asks. “Cause, like, you never know. She may just have known a man who could move metal, but not you? Or ‘known’ mightn’t mean ‘slept with’?” 

Charles looks at Alex as if to say _don’t get his hopes up,_ but Erik mumbles from behind his hands, “I went to see his mother. There isn’t an element of doubt.” 

 

Alex surreptitiously hands five bucks to Hank. They’d made a bet on the way upstairs whether or not Erik would have the balls to find out was he the baby-daddy or not. 

 

“I’m a terrible father!” Erik says, standing up, and then clearly thinking the better of it and sitting down again. “I’ve got to go and get Pietro like ten, eleven years worth of presents.” He stops and peers around suspiciously. “What age is the kid anyway?”

“Closer to eighteen?” Hank says cautiously, afraid this will be an unacceptable answer. 

Erik looks up at him, his eyes fixating on Hank like the gospel itself was etched on his blue forehead. “Really? Eighteen? That’s great, I can drink with him in Europe now, we can _bond”._  
“Perhaps we might refrain from drinking for a little while,” Charles suggests, a smile in his tone.  

“Perhaps,” Erik says, a little sadly. “I’ve got to, sober up, and like, assume my responsibility-”and then his face was changing and he was ineffectively jabbing a finger at Charles. “You! Why is _my son_ at your school?” 

“Because he’s a mutant Erik, come on, you know this.” 

“But why do you get to raise him? He’s mine. I’m taking him to the Brotherhood right now before you brainwash him into your idealistic peaceful ways.”

Hank started laughing, and Alex had a fist shoved in his mouth to stop the giggles coming out. Only Charles it seemed, had the patience to reason with Erik when he was like this.

“Erik, does your-,” and then he pauses. He’d probably been going for _terrorist organisation_ but had evidently caught himself last minute. “Does the Brotherhood actually teach its members anything?” 

“Yes…” Erik says, looking around, probably for inspiration. “We do very important things Charles. Really, really important stuff.” 

“Top-secret?” Alex says with a smile. 

“Yes!” Erik says, latching onto that. “Yes, I’m terribly afraid that I can’t tell you, but it is just _so_ secret. But I can tell Pietro, ‘cause he’s my son and I should trust him.” 

 

Erik was wavering again, and Hank quickly tried to think of something to say, but he wasn’t fast enough. “I’m not ready to have kids,” Erik mutters. 

“I know. I have about fifty under my care. It’s difficult,” Charles says sympathetically.  
“You never said you had fifty children!” Erik says, his eyes wild. 

“Students, Erik, I have fifty students, I don’t actually have any children-” 

Erik seems to consider this for a moment. “It’s probably best. Fifty is a lot. It’s a very big number. One child is probably enough between the two of us, isn’t it?” 

Hank can’t help himself, and he breaks down laughing. Alex is in a similar state. 

Erik suddenly grabs his helmet and pulls it on, and then starts rhythmically pounding his head against the table. The helmet makes a dull thud each time. It is hypnotic.  

“Erik, stop that, you’ll give yourself another concussion,” Charles says. 

“Why don’t you ever call me Magneto, it’s _so_ rude.”

“Fine _Magneto,_ could you take off the helmet?”

“What, you want my son and my helmet? You’re so greedy Charles.” 

Hank can’t breathe. Who knew that under Erik’s many layers of egotism and homicidal tendencies that there was a comic genius, just needing a head trauma and copious amounts of alcohol to come out? 

“Right. Let’s just put Erik to bed, shall we?” Charles suggests after a moment. 

“I’m not tired, damn you Charles.” 

Hank and Alex exchange a look and a shrug respectively, and then they go to each side of Erik’s chair and pull him up. “The bed’s just over there, I am perfectly capable-” Erik grumbles, but they ignore him. 

“Uhhh, Professor, where are you going to sleep?” Alex asks after they tip Erik into the bed. 

“I’ll figure something out,” Charles says. “Goodnight boys.” 

They leave, taking the hint. 

 

“That was crazy!” Alex says as they make their way downstairs. 

“I know. How much do you wanna bet he doesn’t stick around till breakfast to see Pietro?” Hank asks. 

“Another five bucks?”  

“Deal,” and they shake on it. 

Hank can’t wait until tomorrow morning. 

 

 

 

 


	2. Renovations.

I.

Hank is up first. He likes to get an hour of relatively sanity to himself in the mornings before the madness starts. He pads down to the kitchen, opens all the cupboard doors and stares at their contents. 

 

Alex gets up twenty minutes or so later, his blond hair still all mussed from sleep. "What's got you so bothered?" he asks Hank, turning on the kettle. Hank may or may not still be staring at the contents of the fridge and cupboards. 

“It’s just- what do you think I should make them? It’s gonna be rough enough day, I think we’ll all need a good breakfast.”  
“That’s if he stuck around at all,” Alex mutters, pouring what Hank believes to be an excessive amount of coffee granules in his cup, but then, it really is that kind of morning. 

“Yeah well, for the first-and-probably-only father and son breakfast, should I make them eggs or cereal?” he asks, and turns to the table. Pietro is sitting on the countertop, his grey eyebrows raised.  
 “Why, is your dad coming?” he asks curiously, shoving his hand into a cereal box and eating it dry, which is unhygienic to say the least. 

"No," Hank says slowly. He looks at Alex. They've known each other for long now that they can read each other's expressions. For instance, now Alex is making a face that says _No way am I telling him man, you better do it._

Hank sighs. This is just his luck. He hasn’t even had his own coffee yet.   


“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. Pietro is still eating the cereal and looks utterly bored, which is his go-to expression. “Right okay Pietro, you remember Magneto, the guy we broke out of the Pentagon?" 

Pietro’s gone, and Hank is relieved - let Charles or Erik himself tell him- but then he spies him by the fridge, slurping back orange juice - Pietro had been unequivocally banned for coffee after those terrible first two days.   
“Yeah yeah I know him,” Pietro says between gulps. “Why, is he your dad or something? Thought one of your parents would be blue, like genetically, you know?” 

"Emm," Hank says. He doesn't really have a gift for breaking news to people. “No, actually, he’s _your_ dad." 

Alex raises an eyebrow, as if to say _good job, dickhead,_ but Hank’s more worried about Pietro at that moment. The carton of orange juice is frozen half-way to his lips. Hank has never seen Pietro be so still before. It’s a little frightening. 

"Really?" Pietro asks a long moment. “Magneto is my dad?”

"Yeah," Hank says. "I'm sorry.” 

“Well Hank, to answer your other question, cereal just doesn't have the same emotional support as eggs, you know?" 

“Sorry?,” Hank asks, a little lost. 

"Where is he anyway?" Pietro asks. 

"In Charles' room, but maybe you shouldn't-" 

Pietro's gone before Hank can finish that sentence. He turns to Alex, who's laughing again. 

"Hey- I thought that went well!" he says defensively. 

"Please man," Alex says, still laughing, "don't be like, a guidance counsellor or like the guy who breaks bad news in the hospital, okay? You’re terrible at this shit.” 

"You weren't much help either," Hank mutters. He himself thought it hadn’t gone too badly. 

 

II.

 

“Wakey-wakey Magneto,” a familiar voice says. 

Magneto’s eyes snap open and he sits up, noting three things. He spent the night in Charles’ bed. Charles himself is nowhere to be seen. Pietro - his son- is sitting at the edge of the bed, wearing Magneto’s helmet. 

It’s going to be a wonderful morning. 

 

“Yeah, the helmet is still a bit big on me yet, you really must have a massive head,” Pietro is saying. “So, when are we going to start construction?”

“Construction?” Magneto asks warily.

“Yeah so Hank told me that you’re my father, no biggie but wow like, you could have said something back at the Pentagon. But anyway, they were betting on whether you’d bail this morning, seeing as you’re bit of a dick - no offence- so I thought I’d get you.”

Magneto blinks. That’s a lot to take in. 

“Sorry Pietro, I wasn’t certain back at the Pentagon, but I went and talked to your mother, and…” He trails off, which is ridiculous. Magneto, as a rule, does not _trail off._ He has rallied thousands of mutants with his speeches, he is vocal and well-spoken and all of that. But still. Pietro looks like he’s upset and Magneto does not want to make it worse. 

 

Pietro looks up again after a moment and smiles, though Magneto can tell it’s a little forced. This whole scenario is forced if he’s being honest, and he laments the fact that he didn’t get away this morning when he had a chance.  

 

“Anyway as I was saying,” Pietro says, “You’re here now, so we can do some renovations, get this place suitable for Charles. You _are_ the one that crippled him after all, it’s kind of the least you can do, really.” Pietro thankfully stops for a second and chews his lip. He is an utterly strange sight, the silver helmet and grey hair looking pale against his brown eyes. The brown eyes do hurt Erik a little. He knows they’re genetically dominant, but he’s so used of seeing his own pale blue ones in the mirror that it’s weird to think his kid hasn’t inherited them.  
  
“I was not going to leave this morning,” Erik says, remembering Pietro’s earlier comment. It’s a little late for it to ring true. He gets out of bed and disdainfully eyes the state of his outfit. Crashing into a mansion does serious damage to clothes, he supposes. 

 

Pietro is equally unimpressed. “Back in a flash,” he says, and then he’s gone. Erik barely has time to take off his cloak - which he normally doesn’t sleep in and has got ridiculously tangled up-before the kid is back, with what appears to be Erik’s old clothes in his hands. 

“Yeah, you left loads of shit here last time you bailed, after Cuba, so I picked out some of that stuff for you. Anyway Magneto, you can’t just wear the cloak and cape casually, y’know, they really should be saved for formal occasions. I’ll take them,” he says, and disappears again.   
When he comes back again the helmet is gone too. Erik doesn’t bother inquiring where he put it, though he gets the strange feeling that the helmet is being held hostage, and he’ll get it back if he behaves. Which is ridiculous. Magneto is the parent here, not Pietro. 

 

“Thank you,” he manages to say through gritted teeth, regarding the clothes. He pulls them on, and then tries his best. “I never got a chance to say it last time, but your power is quite impressive. You’d make an excellent scout for a group, doing reconnaissance work and the like.” 

“Thanks, I guess,” Pietro says, “but I’m still not joining your terrorist group, if you’re implying what I think you’re implying. C’mon, Hank made eggs and I’m _starving.”_

 

Magneto follows Pietro out the door, and he’s half-way downstairs before he realises that he has lost his cape, helmet and now his dignity, as he’s about to have breakfast with people who - rightfully or not- loathe him, all on his son’s whim. 

“Damn that boy,” he mutters, but follows the kid anyway. He owes him one breakfast at the very least. 

III.

 

Charles had rolled in quietly just after Pietro left, and Hank hadn’t bothered asking him where he’d been, but just told him what had happened with. Charles looked relieved that he didn’t have to be the one to tell the kid. _Probably why he was hiding all morning,_ Hank thinks to himself. Charles and Erik are perfect for one another in that respect. 

 

Pietro dashes in the door a while later, but Erik’s entrance is more dignified - a lot more so than last night’s version anyway. Still, it would be better if he had the sweeping cloak and angled helmet, and not those shabby grey training pants on. 

 

Alex wordlessly hands Hank the five bucks. No-one seems able to speak. Erik lingers in the door, like he’s unsure whether he should sit down at the table or not.  
“You want eggs, Dad?” Pietro asks. 

“Yes,” Erik says simply - well, simple for the man who loves dramatics at least- and he sits at the table. The moment passes and everyone seems to visibly relax, and Hank swears that the fork he’d been holding had been vibrating, but it stopped too, which was helpful. 

 

“You look well this morning Erik,” Charles says after a moment.

Hank hopes that they’re not going to start flirting or something, but Erik just looks at Charles intently. So they’re having one of their mental chats. How thoughtful of them, to make everyone else present feel welcome. 

 

“Well Professor,” Pietro says, completely unaware of the intense mental spar the two have got going on, “Me and Dad are gonna renovate - hey, wait a sec, Magneto, can we call you Mags for short?” Pietro asks.   
Hank surreptitiously spits out some of the coffee he’s been drinking and Alex gives him a good clatter on the back, far harder than was necessary.   
Erik’s face is something that Hank could never have imagined, and he’s seen it all. He’s turned into a blue rage monster in his own lifetime, and he still couldn’t have pictured this entire scene, not even as a nightmare. 

 “No, you can’t,” Erik says firmly. 

“ _Fine,”_ Pietro says. “Anyway Prof, me and Magneto are going to do some renovations today. I was thinking, elevator, couple of ramps, shouldn’t be too hard.” 

“That sounds wonderful Pietro. I’m sure Hank will help you with the schematics. It sounds a good bit more productive than ‘drinking in Europe,’ at least,” Charles says. Erik glares at him.

 

The rest of breakfast passes unremarkably, except for the eggs, which were exceptional in Hank’s own opinion, and the absolute right decision as far as suitable breakfasts go.   
“Okay,” Pietro says, because Erik is huddled around his coffee and obviously unwilling to start ‘renovations’, whatever’s entailed with that, “C’mon Dad, let’s go and fix this stupid house already.” 

 

Hank knows Erik is a killer. He shot Raven in the leg, he fought Hank, crippled Charles and god knows what he did to Logan but Hank hasn’t seen him since - and yet that same guy looks apprehensive now. Hank guesses that making a goddamn ramp for his supposed friend with his only son is a difficult thing for Erik. He has too much pride for this kind of thing. And if it wasn’t _furthering the mutant cause,_ or carelessly killing or seriously harming his allies, then was Erik really ever interested?

 

One withering look from Charles later and Erik does get up, and he and Pietro disappear into the west wing of the house. Over the next few hours there’s a lot of shouting and loud crashes, but Charles says to leave them alone and Hank is not going to argue with that. 

 

It’s about noon before they decide that they really ought to check on them. Alex and Charles voted on Hank doing it, on account of him being the one most likely to survive if Erik was in a homicidal mood. He’s really having a lucky day.

 

He’s walking up the stairs when he hears Erik say in an exasperated tone, “No Pietro, we're _not_ melting down my helmet to make metal supports- no, I _know_ Alex can melt it, but it’s still not going to happen-”

 

Hank leaves them to it. They’ll survive another few hours. 

 

 

 


	3. Spaghetti.

 

“So Dad, when are we going to have the talk?” Pietro asks as they try and figure out how to make a goddamn elevator out of a box of nails and some plastic pipes. They hadn’t had the foresight to actually get any supplies for this little project, and that, plus their general lack of understanding of how to go about building anything, was really grinding on Magneto’s nerves. 

“Aren’t we’re talking right now, Pietro?” he replies irritably. 

Pietro’s eyes widen. “Wow. You don’t even know what _the talk_ is, do you?” 

Magneto closes his eyes. _Give me patience,_ he thinks. 

“Aren’t you going to give me advice with the lads and the ladies, y’know, techniques and stuff? Warn me not to get some girl pregnant when I’m in my twenties like you did, all that?”

Magneto is still processing the insult in that last sentence when Pietro continues, 

“Well, I do have the ladies end covered, Wanda helps me with that, but I thought you could help me with the fellas, on account of you and the professor.”

Magneto neither knows nor cares who Wanda is at this point, but the last part of that sentence catches him. 

“Excuse me?” he asks. “What, _exactly_ , about me and Charles are you talking about?”

Pietro loses a bit of his momentum under Erik’s glare but continues on, “Well, y’know, because you two are gay together.”

“What?” Magneto asks flatly. There’s a rather drawn out pause before he can say, “Myself and Charles are not ‘gay together’, what the hell gave you that impression?”  
Pietro shakes his head in disbelief. “Really? Not even a little bit? Are you suuure?” 

“ _Pietro,_ ” Magento warns, “Cut it out.” 

“What? Hey, look sorry dad, I just presumed-”

“What exactly did you presume, Pietro?”

“Well, just from the chess games and the banter and then the way you left him and-”

He trails off, then raises his hands. “Stop getting insulted, okay? It was a misunderstanding.”

“Did I say it was insulting?” Magneto snaps, and runs a hand through his hair. “But look, Pietro, you can’t just run around saying people are _gay_ for crying out loud,” he says, his voice harsher than he means it to be. 

Pietro juts out his jaw, but for once says nothing, and Magneto is at a loss as what to do next. Pietro does most of the talking normally. 

“Let’s see if they’ve made any progress on dinner, shall we?” he says after a moment. 

Pietro nods, and then shakes his head just as fast. “Just checked there. Nope. Guess you’re stuck here with me.”

If Magneto starts grinding his teeth, it’s entirely unintentional. 

 

 

-

 

Hank wanders back into the kitchen that evening, and then immediately regrets it. Alex is cooking tonight. This could be dangerous.   
He pulls up a chair, and asks “what are you making?” as casually as he can, fearing the worst. 

“Spaghetti,” Alex says, and his brow crinkles a little in concentration. It must be very arduous task after all, adding hot water to the pot. Hank doesn’t know how Alex will possibly cope with this kind of pressure. 

Probably due to his stints in jail and the army, Alex does not have exceptionally developed tastebuds, or a gift for cooking. This often leads to questions like the one he asks now. “Hank? You know chicken?” 

Hank sighs. “I’ve heard of it, yeah.” 

“Can I just like, fry it?” Alex asks, gesturing towards his torso. So he intends to laser-blast their dinner. Lovely. 

“Do you have a slow-roast setting that I wasn’t previously aware of?” Hank asks.

“Fuck off,” Alex says, maybe affectionately, maybe not, and turns back to the chicken. He wavers in front of the microwave, clearly wondering whether you can cook chicken that way. Hank doesn’t inquire if this means that they are having literally just having dry chicken and spaghetti for dinner. It’s probably best not to know.

 

Hank starts jotting down his idea. He used to have a habit of writing on his arm, but the blue fur he sports now doesn’t really hold the ink so well. It’s a shame. 

“What are you doing?” Alex asks trying to sound uninterested.

“Right,” Hank begins, albeit badly. “Well I wanted to see if there’s any connection between the mutations in families, or whether it’s just random.” He phrases it as simply as he can, conscious of the fact that Alex has limited interest in science, but he doesn’t want to be condescending either. Condescension is for guys in metal hats with stupid maroon capes who flap around ineffectively and still think they’re superior. 

“Well,” Alex says, turning back to the spaghetti, which obviously still needs the utmost care and attention, “there’s always my kid brother.” 

Hank blinks. “You have a brother?” he asks, rather stupidly, as that has just been established. 

“Yeah Scott,” Alex replies. “He’s got the lasers too, but they’re in his eyes. It’s really shitty.”

Hank is still flabbergasted. “You never mentioned him.”  
“Well, it’s not like I’ve seen you too often in the last ten years man. When I was getting shot at in Vietnam, I wasn’t thinking ‘wow, I really must tell Beast that my deadbeat mom got pregnant again,’”

Hank almost feels like he should apologise, though he doesn’t know what for, but instead just scrawls down this new tidbit of information, then looks up. 

“If he’s having problems with his mutation, why doesn’t he join the school?” he asks. 

Alex barks out a laugh. “Man, this isn’t a school. We’ve got a kleptomaniac, and his megalomaniac dad, a junkie, a monster and me. That’s it. What kind of place is this to raise a kid? Scott can come someday, sure, but he’s got to go to real school first, learn to read and write for God-sakes. Who here is gonna have the patience to teach him that?” 

This is the most words Alex has ever spoken to Hank all at once, and he seems to realise it himself and turns back to the dinner. There’s a lot there that they could discuss, but Hank gets stuck on the word _monster._ He would like to think Alex is joking, but it’s hard to tell with Havok sometimes. 

 

Charles ambles in sometime later, and Hank reflects that only Charles could be wheel-chair bound and still have the verb ‘amble’ apply to him. It’s the British side of him, with all the cardigans, he supposes, that makes it work.  

“Professor, did anyone in your family have a mutation?” Hank asks him. 

“Raven,” Charles answers immediately. 

“Erm, I actually mean biological family,” Hank replies, embarrassed at the ease in which Charles still calls Raven family. “It’s for a study I’m thinking of doing, tracking relations between mutations within families,” he elaborates. 

“Oh,” Charles says softly, and Hank regrets bringing it up at all. The unspoken rule in the mansion was not to mention Erik, Raven, or Sean. They were only dealing with the latter’s death by steadfastly not talking about it, like how they dealt with the other two’s on-and-off absences. It was easier like that. 

 “Well, my biological father killed himself when I was only a child,” Charles says _,_ and from the flatness of his tone he could be talking about the qualities of Alex’s spaghetti,“so I never did find out whether he had a mutation or not, but I’d hazard a guess and say not.” Charles lapses into silence again, and Hank is afraid to say anything. “Oh, my mother was unremarkable in every way too,” the Professor adds a moment later. “My apologies if that’s unhelpful Hank.”   
Hank _really_ regrets starting this investigation. Nearly every mutant he knows has a brutal backstory, and even Alex said he wasn’t cut out to be a guidance counsellor. He shouldn’t be dragging this stuff up.   
“I’m sorry Professor,” he manages. 

 

 

 

Erik and Pietro turn up some time later, ostensibly not speaking to one another. Hank would really like to know how Charles has managed a decade of relative-amity with the man, when his own son can’t last two hours. Knowing Erik, he probably told Pietro to kill his mom. She was only a lowly _human_ after all. Billions of others to replace her. 

 

“Dinner’s ready,” Alex says, walking to the table, balancing four plates in his hands. He slides one in front of Hank, then Charles and Pietro, and puts the last one in his own place, and then sits down. 

Everyone watches him as he begins to eat. 

“What?” he asks reproachfully, a blond picture of innocence - if innocence had a strong jaw and light stubble, that is.

“Alex, don’t you have some dinner for Erik?” Charles asks, not without merit. Erik is drumming his fingers on the table and looking like he may go _Magneto_ on them, which Hank would like to avoid at all costs. 

“Oh,” Alex says slowly and yet deliberately, “Oh yeah. I must have forgot about you, Magneto. Oh _no_. What a horrible mistake. It must be just terrible, being let down by someone you thought was your friend. My _sincerest_ apologies,” Alex says, then adds cheerfully, “There’s some bread leftover if you want to make a sandwich or something. That is, if you’re even hanging around that long at all.” 

“That’s enough,” Charles says. Erik stands, and Hank thinks _well here comes the inevitable Erik-storming-off-bit,_ but Erik surprises him by sucking in a breath and walking over to the kitchen, and by all accounts he actually starts making a sandwich, though god knows what ingredients they have. Butter. Everyone has butter. There also might still be some mustard lying around from the Honey Mustard Turkey debacle a few months back.  
None of them do much grocery shopping. Hank has the excuse of being too intimidating, Alex flat-out refuses, Charles pleads disability and Pietro does it on occasion, but won’t pay for it, which is nearly worse.   
They were, he concludes, a ridiculous bunch. 

 

“So, how much progress did you make today, Pietro?” Charles asks after a moment. Erik is deliberately being noisy making his sandwich - how loudly can a one man open a tub of butter, really - his actions screaming, _no, I’m fine doing it by myself, no, no need to get up._ Such a drama queen. 

“Umm, we decided where to put the ramp,” Pietro says. “Mainly we were arguing though, because Dad wants to line the walls of the mansion with metal so he can crush everyone to death inside if he needs to.”

Hank isn’t even surprised, and that worries him a little. It’s one thing to know a man with murderous tendencies and avoid that man at all costs; it’s quite another to try and have dinner and polite conversation with him. 

 

“ _Pietro_ ,” Erik says warningly from over in the kitchen.  

“Alright alright, so that last bit was a lie,” Pietro says, shrugging, “but wow guys, you didn’t even bat an eyelid. Is he really that bad?” 

The silence that follows says a lot. Erik slams the butter knife onto the counter and walks back over to where they’re sitting. 

 

The silence grows deeper, and it’s almost unbearable. Maybe if Hank really casually gets up for a glass of water no-one will notice him slinking away. 

He sighs. He’s kind of hard not to notice, being a blue hairy _thing_ and all. 

 

“How’s that sandwich, Erik?” Charles asks. It’s bad when Charles is this desperate. 

“Bland.”

 

Even though it’s an informal rule that Hank isn’t allowed to talk about science at dinner, desperate times call for it.   
“Erm, Magneto?” he asks. Erik’s gaze moves to him, and he shrinks a little in his chair, and then straightens again. He’s fought Magneto, who isn’t such a big man when you do literally anything other than give him metal to work with. Hank is pretty sure that Erik doesn’t know how to fight fairly, without using his power, but then, neither does Charles. They’re literal soul-mates, he muses.  

 

He stares Erik down. “Did anyone else in your family - other than Pietro that is,have a mutation? It’s for a, emm, project.” 

Erik looks at Hank coldly in the eye, and then says in a completely monotone voice, as if he’s daring Hank to pity him, “Well Hank, all of my family were brutally murdered in a concentration camp, so the topic never really came up, but as far as I know they were human through and through. I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you.” His eyes look like he means nothing of the sort. 

“Ahh yes,” Hank mumbles. All of his bravery leaks out of him and he stares at his spaghetti. It’s congealing. Does spaghetti even congeal? That’s Alex’s cooking for you. 

 

Alex wiggles his eyebrows at Hank in a way that says, _could you be less sensitive?_ Hank wants to wriggle his eyebrows right back in a way that would eloquently say _at least I bothered to feed him,_ but since Hank went blue he can’t really control his eyebrows very much, and he fears the message would be lost. 

 

“Hank?” Pietro asks, more timidly than usual. “If you’re still interested, my sister Lorna hasn’t shown any powers yet.” He spins his spaghetti on his fork like it is a food blender, and looks as if what he has just said is inconsequential. 

“You have a sister?” Erik says, and Hank knows that tone, like he’s trying to sound like he’s not interested, but he desperately is. Hank never understands this charade that Erik plays at; like he’s aloof and above it all. Like, wow man, it’s okay to be interested in whether you have a daughter or not.   
“Lorna’s only a kid, so she’s not yours if that’s what you’re wondering,” Pietro says bluntly. 

Hank can nearly feel the relief coming off Erik. Scratch that- his relief is _literally_ palpable as all of the cutlery stops faintly vibrating. Hank knew they should have invested in plastic cutlery for times like this. 

“So no, doubt Lorna is yours,” Pietro continues, “But I guess my twin Wanda is your daughter, come to think of it.”

“You. Have. A. Twin.” 

Erik’s face is gone purple, and Hank is glad that Erik has changed out of his terrorism-suit, because that maroon against the shade he is now would be really off-putting. 

“Yeah, Wanda. Thought you knew. Didn’t you like, talk to my mom? I was kind of wondering why you hadn’t mentioned her till now actually.”

To be fair to Erik, having one child had clearly been stressing him out enough, and now all of that man-pain and angst was just doubled. 

“I have a daughter?” he asks, clearly not understanding. Hank wonders sometimes if that helmet addled his brains, just a little bit. 

 

Hank is aware that pots have started swinging and knives slicing through the air. He tenses, but Pietro just sighs, and then everything is back in its place again, except for Erik. Erik is lying on the floor, looking baffled. 

“Why am I on the floor?” Erik growls, which is an entirely fair question. 

“Yeah well I just thought I’d better lay you down in case you fainted or something,” Pietro says, fork prodding his spaghetti half-heartedly.  

Erik stands up. “I don’t just _faint_ Pietro.” 

“Of course you don’t Dad,” Pietro says dryly. “Though you sure looked ready to collapse in the Pentagon after I speeded you around.” 

Hank would really, really love to hear more of that story, but Charles, being a bastard, interrupts. 

“Sorry Pietro, so you have a twin sister called Wanda. Does she have a similar mutation to you?” 

“Nah,” Pietro says, “But she can control probability, so that’s probably relevant, right Hank?” 

Hank asks the obvious question. “If she’s a mutant why isn’t she here?”

“Well she’s at college, and I _did_ ask her did she want to hang out in a creepy old house with a junkie, an ex-con and a blue-beast thing, and she was like, nah man, I’ll pass. Can’t really blame her.” 

 

“Excuse me,” Erik says, finally pushing himself up off the floor and standing up. He stalks out of the room without another word. 

 

-

 

Magneto is striding outside, about to leave- this place is not good for his mental health- when he remembers the goddamn helmet. 

He corners Pietro when the kid is on his way back to his bedroom. 

“Give me back my helmet,” he demands.

“Ahh dad, can’t it be like a momentum, something to remember you by?” Pietro says sarcastically. 

“Just give it back, would you?” 

“Fine,” Pietro says. He’s back in a second with the helmet in his hands, but he’s already talking before Magneto can say anything.   
“You know what dad? Fuck you. It’s bullshit that a guy who kills people in the name of _equality,_ and _not discriminating_ against mutants is himself homophobic. You’re a hypocrite. Take your goddamn helmet and go. I’m glad Wanda never met you. You’re a goddamn disappointment of a father, you know that?”

Of all the things his son has just shouted at him, Magneto can’t understand _homophobic._ How would that even be relevant- 

He thinks about how angry Pietro was earlier, when Magneto said he couldn’t just call people gay, when he was so quick to deny himself and Charles being together. 

“You’re not-” he starts, and then stops because Pietro has arched on grey eyebrow. 

“I’m not what, dad?”

“I mean, you’re not,” and he pauses again, “gay?” 

Pietro is leaning against the wall, opposite Magneto, far closer than he had been. “Yeah,” he says defiantly, and then, “No, I’m more like bisexual really, but still. Why dad, is there something a problem with that?” 

“Of course not,” Magneto says, too hurriedly because Pietro is still looking at him with that cold, cold look. 

Irrational fear strikes Magneto. Why is being a father so devastatingly nerve-wreaking? It’s like cutting wires on a bomb, except bomb talks at 200mph and calls him ‘dad’, and somehow it feels like everything is going to blow apart forever if he doesn’t act fast.   


There is a long fractured silence, in which Magneto tries to _think._ What does he know about this, about any of this? He may never, ever ask for help, but if a stray thought screams out _what the fuck am I meant to do Charles?_ , well that’s something else entirely. 

The answer comes back to him at once. _Just say you support him no matter what. Which is the truth, anyway._

Goddamn Charles and his clarity on issues like this.   
“I support you Pietro, no matter what,” he says solemnly, and they may be Charles’ words but Magneto means them as if they were his own. 

“Yeah?” Pietro says. 

“Yes, I do,” Magneto replies. “And look, keep the helmet, okay? I don’t need it.” 

“Really?” 

“I’m not leaving,” Magneto says. “Well, I will for a day or two - seems like I have a daughter to track down. I’d say Charles wouldn’t mind if I signed you out for a few days, to see Wanda too.” 

Pietro looks at the helmet in his hands, and then back at Magneto. “Look man, I don’t want to guilt-trip you into this, like it’s totally fine if you don’t want to-”

“Of course I want to. I came to see you, didn’t I?” he replies, his tone lighter than it’s been in a long time. “Go on, get our stuff, we might as well go now.” 

Pietro beams at him, and then he’s gone. 

_Thank you,_ Magneto thinks. 

_Not at all Erik,_ Charles’ voice comes back to him. _My old friend, that was all you, and you were magnificent. You’re going to be a wonderful father._

Magneto can’t formulate a coherent thought other than _thank you_ again, because Pietro is back, with two stuffed bags under his arms. 

“Ready?” Magneto asks. 

“Sure dad,” Pietro says, and they walk out of the Xavier mansion together. It’s not like Magneto has a car - he actually levitated over here, albeit badly - and even if he had one, he doesn’t think Pietro is used to travelling that slowly, but for once Erik doesn’t worry. They’ll figure something out. It’s all going to be okay. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
